Science, Magic, and Something More
by Cerulean Grace
Summary: Merlin has a broad knowledge of nearly everything, except for her own feelings, which leave her endlessly trying to solve a question with an answer she doesn't understand. When Escanor returns to the Sins, Merlin must confront a new feeling she doesn't yet have a name for. (Canon compliant/divergent, mild manga spoilers).
1. Science, Magic, and Something More

"Do you have a purpose for collecting these?" Gowther ponders; his voice is monotonous and bland as always, but Merlin can swear his tone changes just a tinge with curiosity. Curiosity was the only 'emotion' he experiences, if it could even be called an emotion. Perhaps that's what made them so similar.

She smirked, her lip twitching as she kept her hand steady, the thin needle she held weaving into the fabric below. "A purpose for collecting," she peaks at what he's referring to: an entire shelf of eyes in different shades and sizes, "eyes? Well, it could be said that most of my collections are superfluous. But I think research for the sake of research is reason enough, don't you agree?"

His lips purse slightly as he seems to consider this. Merlin wonders if he was considering it, wonders what those churns in his head really processed. She'd love to dive in with a few tools, but even she wouldn't dare; her companions received a restraint from her inquisitiveness that she held for no others. All she can do is attempt to keep him emotionally stable: one day, perhaps, love and heart will return to him. But not yet.

"Merlin," his voice cuts through her thoughts, but her hands never stop. Rarely does she get distracted from her work. She hums in acknowledgment, keeping her eyes down.

"Do you think," he poses thoughtfully, "we will ever be a full seven again?"

Her fingers slow and then pause, her eyes widening only a fraction before returning to their passive state. Yes, six of the sins they were now, and in relative peace. But that left one out there still. She kept distracted from thinking of him: for all she knew, he could be dead. But she doubted it. Though no science nor magic she'd encountered through her plentiful years had proven such a feeling so, she still suspected she'd know if something were to happen to Escanor.

"Perhaps," she settles on, and then gets back to work. A steady hand, a needle through fabric, a magic pulsing through her veins. Work is easy. Thoughtless, sometimes. "Maybe even sooner than we suspect."

A tilted head of pink locks eyes her curiously, "what makes you think so?"

"A feeling."

"That's all?"

"Sometimes, that's all there is," she rises from her work again, approaching the doll. She gives him a motherly grin, with just the usual hint of mischief. "Sometimes feelings are even more accurate than science or magic."

"I'll note that." Gowther says, and Merlin knows he's being quite literal. Emotions are but a study to him. If she was being honest with herself, they were foreign to her.

In the evening he heads off into the dusk and into the city. Merlin is left in her lab, surrounded by books and collections, and finds rest on her folded arms as she fades into sleep. The back of her eyelids are a shade of orange-brown she hasn't seen in a decade. Her heart yearns for an emotion she has forgotten the name of years before: much like Gowther, she just can't quite understand it.

— —

In the perils of war, he returns. She'd heard that he had, but had been away from the tournament, the fighting, for just a while. Now she was back. And he was back. At long last, they were seven again.

It's four hours into the afternoon, and he is descending forms. Still, the sun is high. He is shining golden armor and steel muscle. Tall and buff but not unusually so. Confident, but with just a crack. She notes this all in bullet points in her head. Her favorite area of study: endlessly changing, unable to be understood.

He is covered in the blood of an enemy, stained in it.

"It doesn't suit you," she says. They've hardly shared multiple lines of dialogue, little introduction, only a few lines of reunion.

"What's that?" He questions, shocked. His confidence wavers.

"Blood," her nose wrinkles, "you're too gentle for such a thing."

He laughs, loud and hearty, "Merlin! We've long battled together. You've seen me like this before."

She hums. She has. "Yes, but it's not your preference."

"No," he wavers, a shake in the boisterous pride. "And honestly," he confesses, a soft voice from a large man, "it brings me no pleasure to be at war."

That made two of them.

"You need a bath," she states blankly. "I have one at my lab. Come." And she walks away before he flushes, knowing he'll follow. She's knows he'll follow. It's a reliable constant.

It's not a long walk to her residence. It's a silent few minutes, except for the clank of his blood stained armor.

Her residence is as always, a clutter of oddities and magic. Immediately, she turns, her hands out and demanding. "I'll give your armor some upgrades in the meanwhile. Go wash."

He is still blustery and embarrassed, much like his night self. He seems to defy his day and night norms when around her. She notes this all.. for science, of course.

He washes in the bathroom, and she lays his armor out on a table, fiddling and tinkering. She'd needed to custom make this set for him, so it didn't explode or suffocate him whenever his body changed so rapidly.

She works, and he's in a fresh set of clothes observing her books. The afternoon wears on, his muscles slowly become smaller. They are nearly the same in height. She pays this no mind: his ability is an enigma, but there is no form in which she is unsure of his company.

He's looking through her shelves of books and she's just come to realize she's stopped moving, observing him.

"You don't carry much outside of technical books," he ponders out loud.

"Is that surprising?"

"Not exactly."

She waits for him to go on, but he doesn't. Nonetheless, her hands do not go back to work. It takes a minute of flipping through shelves with a careful eye. "I prefer, as you know, fantasy. Poetry, the more emotional pieces. But knowledge, well… you are of course so brilliant to have all this information stored away. Books like these are of much more use."

"All those books and yet there's still much even I don't know."

"Oh? I doubt that!" Escanor smiles. It's partially in jest, and mostly in comforting reassurance. He always seeks to reassure her.

But why her? She knows she's beautiful. And yet he sees beyond. Regardless of her mystery, her walls, her mischievous nature. This man, this genuinely good man, has found so much affection for her. All the books in the world and it doesn't make sense.

What does she feel? No. She never entertains such thoughts about her emotions. She drops the question before she begins to answer it.

She stands from her seat, walking over to the shelves beside him. She pretends to glance at them thoughtfully, truly seeing nothing.

"I wish I knew what went on in your head," he chuckles, low and soft, a huff of warm air against her cheek. "I can see the gears churning. What are you thinking?"

Her automatic response tells her to say no. Secretive, to the point. But she promised more. "If you must know—"

"And I must!"

Her lips twitch, "I was thinking about how complicated you are. I've mastered science and magic, and yet, around you I feel something. And no study could explain the feeling."

He pauses, swallowing. She respects how quickly he recovers, humming. "Is that good or bad?"

"Neither. Wonderful, in a way. Frustrating to the mind that wants an explanation for all." She turns away again, takes a seat on her chaise, leaning back against the cushions.

He sits by her feet. Still tall, at this hour. Slimming, but not at the end of the day. The dusk light still shines through the window. His hand reaches out, and she holds her breath. His fingers gently touch her hair, tucks dark strands behind her ear. There's a tremble that could be either of them, or both.

"Poems," he begins, "try to use words to convey the feelings that we cannot explain to ourselves."

She hums, at peace. "And you write these poems about me."

"Yes,"

"Are they about love?" She questions to the air, an inner thought the slips from her tongue.

He hesitates, pausing mid breath, and she realizes what she's asked him to confess. Something they both know, and yet dared not say. Her eyes widen as she goes to pull the question back from the tense air.

"They're all about love," he confesses, but there is a confidence in his voice. More confident than she's ever heard him, at this dusky hour. What a curious man, an endless enigma. Her wide eyes take him in.

"Read another to me," a gentle command.

So he does. A poem about the colors of berries, an ode to her.

"A mystery you are," he finishes, "the greatest sorceress in all Britannia." And his words come to a close, his gaze on her as he waits for response.

"Perhaps we are both enigmas," is all she states, though her tone is nearly sad. Here he is writing odes to her beauty, and here she sat knowing nothing of the heart.

Moments pass in silence. "There are feelings I don't believe I can convey," she pauses, "but I cannot write poems."

"I'm sure you could!" He reassures, "your brilliant, and —"

"No," she leans up from the lounge so they're sitting side by side, there legs lightly touch. "You think very dearly of me," she says, matter of fact.

"Oh, well, I-"

"Why do you think so dearly of me?" Her head tilts, and she wonders if this is how Gowther feels when he is so genuinely confused by others emotions.

His eyes widen, and he needn't say anything at all for her to know he's prepared an endless book, a poem that goes on, about all the reasons. The thought makes her feel something in her chest and under her skin, warm, glowing.

"I'm going to try something. It may be foolish but… I want to understand." She needed to understand.

"I can't write poems. I'm not good with words, emotions. I think I must," her voice becomes a whisper as their eyes meet, and she tilts her head naturally "find another way."

She doesn't close her eyes when they kiss. She is too startled. She'd kissed before: oh, many times. Her life has spanned too long to not try things for curiosity sake. But it had all been science then.

This was something more. She didn't know what it was, only that it was overwhelming, and she was a woman who was infrequently overwhelmed. Her eyes softly close. She gives in.

She kisses him, and she expects fire. But it is not flame, or passionate explosions, or even sparks. No, it is just warmth. Warmth and joy and the color of orange swirling beneath her closed eyelids.

After a few seconds of surprised paradise he gasps, and that breaks their lips apart. But she stays close.

"Merlin, I-"

"I feel," she begins, but she cannot continue on with words she doesn't know. "I feel." She simply repeats. A statement.

He nods because regardless of his poems stating she's an endless enigma, he tends to understand her on a level few others do. "There are somethings we can't explain," he repeats, "even brilliant people like you. Science nor magic… all the studies in the world… we cannot be taught. We just have to find it ourselves."

"Yes," she agrees.

"I think I'll call it love."

* * *

 **AN: This was a oneshot for my lovely friend Bertazsleepyhead on tumblr's birthday. It was meant to be a oneshot, but on the request of her I will be continuing it (also for my lovely friend Marco who loves this ship and had some prompt requests :) ). Originally posted on tumblr or archive, but figured I'd cross post to here. Thoughts are very appreciated, good or bad! And if you like Escalin, would love to hear thoughts and suggestions! Cover art is also by Bertaz, who does a ton of lovely escalin art on their tumblr!**


	2. Pride, Envy, and Other Sins

Thanks to BottledStarlight, Myherogal22, and Toaneo07 Ver2.0 for reviews and support over here on FF! And thanks to nostalgicbookworm and bertazsleepyhead for supporting this story!

* * *

"You're upset with me" Escanor says; no remorse, just a matter of fact. His eyes are narrowed and his brow twitches in a nearly annoyed way as two large fingers play with the edge of his stache. It is still early in the midday, and his confidence is hardly wavering.

He'll usually waver for Merlin, though. The singular woman that throws his mental swings of pride off their usual pattern: she manages to make him submissive at his prideful peak, and confident and proud into the nights.

"Yes." Merlin states, also matter of fact.

Escanor turns away at this, huffing and red; he'd rather have his eyes plastered out the window into the cloudy endlessness of the fields than on the extremely displeased woman sitting at her desk, eyebrows pulled together in her frustration and she toyed with some magical artifact more roughly than usual. Anger and anxiety came off her in a blended wave of negative energy, and Escanor could hardly handle the twitch in his fingers as he longed to reach out. His pride, however, holds him back; that, and his stiffly folded arms, his muscular day-form planted stubbornly to the ground.

"I respect your anger," he begins, letting his eyes move to her. Though he didn't understand her anger, not really. But he respected her, and thus respected her emotions, though he disagreed with them. "But I won't take back what I said. That little boy isn't worth so much of your stress, nor your-"

He smacks his mouth shut at the look of coolness in her eyes. She'd never, in most of their years together as fellow Sins, shown such frustration and coldness towards him. His insides tremble in nervousness, and the nervousness then makes him chagrined and frustrated. It is midday, and he is near at the peak of his confidence and pride. And yet, the hours of the clock don't affect his personality nearly as much around her. With her, he is more consistently... himself: at night she gives him strength and the willingness to fight beyond his doubt, and in the day… Well, here he stands, shaken on the inside. It was difficult for him to conceptualize which personality is more 'him', and yet she keeps him at a consistent middle-ground.

It makes him feel somewhat infuriated. But never at her: merely at himself.

She has already turned back to her work from her silencing look, not paying him any more words nor glances. Escanor reflects on risking another interjection. His pride allows it.

"Do you love him, Merlin?"

Her eyes widen and blink. She, so composed and unreachable, is off balance. Yes, this is the game they play, Escanor ponders to himself: she shakes him at his most composed, and he too can sometimes manage to break through her steely resilience. Not as often nor as readily, but he can nonetheless.

She spins fully in her chair, crossing her ankles. His eyes roam on her short cut ensemble of the day. Composing poems in his head to her and her beauty, yet he knows now is not the time to recite them.

"What are you implying?" her eyes narrow.

"It was a simple question," he mutters.

They meet eyes for moments that seem eternal.

"Well," she begins, pompous and judgement laced in her tone, "it nearly sounds like you are envious. But I refuse to humor the idea that you are so foolish as to be envious of a child when it comes to my affections."

Escanor twitches at that response, feeling properly dismissed and foolish: her intention. "He'll be king soon enough. Almost a man."

"Emphasis on almost."

"We are all children in your eyes, are we not?" He feels more frustration now. Couldn't she see him as a child? Barely in his 20s when they met, while she has lived centuries if not millennia. She had time to spare and wait if she was waiting for this ideal king of hers.

She stands quickly, and Escanor flinches. In a flash she teleports in front of him: she could have walked the few feet, he internally notes, but of course she must find use to show her power in her anger. A thin finger is pressed against his chest, and Escanor flinches. Her eyes are black fire, burning and deep. "Your foolishness knows no end. I raised that child, I formed him into the king he is meant to be, destined to be. I saw his potential with my own eyes years ago, and I raised him to fulfill it. He is not a man, he is a child: my child." Quickly, she realizes the implication of her words and corrects herself, "I may not have birthed him, but I raised him and taught him everything he knows, and I believe that is enough…" She taps against his chest again, pressing, "To not" another stab "want to see him injured or dead!"

Her finger twists against the thinness of his shirt, and her eyes continue their endless blaze. Shivers pass through his frame; he'd hit a sore topic he should not have.

With a flip of her raven locks, she made her way back to her seat, shoving a variety of trinkets off her work table with a metal crash as she pulled out another gadget to work on. The silence punctures him, hanging in the air like fog.

For too long, the quiet dwells.

"I suppose I've... misunderstood the situation." He relents in a huff. His pride roars in betrayal within his chest and mind, but his heart quells it. His affection for her, his love for her, is above any foolish sin of his. She lets her eyes linger on him from the side even as her hands continue to move on the table. "I apologize. It was wrong of me to be so arrogant about someone you care about. I should... support the people in your life, outside of myself."

Her hands pause on her work, and he sees some of the tension and anger slip from her. Relief slips through him, but he knows he must go on.

"I don't always…" he pauses, tasting different words with his tongue, "I am never quite positive where your affections lie. You are a difficult person to read. Mystifying, radiant, beautifully mysterious - but difficult nonetheless."

She rolls her eyes, but with considerably less animosity. Though she knew her own beauty, it did not hurt for him to repeat it out loud. He lacked confidence in his worthiness of her in many ways, but he does know that she enjoys his words. While the others tended to believe his poems were foolish and mostly ignored him as he recited them, Merlin asks for him to speak. She appreciates what he has to say, his odes to her, his odes to them.

Her fingers tap against the table, endlessly moving in her thoughts. An intrusive thought stabs his mind as he wishes to hold her restless hands. He imagines the pretty vision in his head and is cut off as she begins to speak, "I thought I had made my feelings… somewhat more clear to you."

His lips twitch upwards, and he lets out a somewhat happy sigh. "No I… was foolish. I should never assume of you. I let my envy get the best of me," he pauses, "And that isn't even my sin." He reflects on his acquaintances and their given sin, and how he may, in this form, encompass more of their supposed "sins" than the rest of his friends combined.

"And I," he continues on, "I do feel bad for having so many… negative feelings, for the boy. He is young."

"Yes" she agrees.

"I do hope he will be… well." He cringes as he thinks of the battered state of the boy, stabbed through the middle, self-inflicted and bleeding out. He cringes even harder as he thinks of the haunting way Merlin crumbled and yelled out. Selfishly enough, he does wonder if Merlin would have so much care for him if he was so drastically injured. He doubts he ever could get to such a state, a pompous conclusion, but still he wonders.

He focuses again on Merlin, who is now eyeing him with more wonder in her narrowed eyes. Again he turns away, not wanting her to pry into his shameful thoughts.

"Foolish man" she mutters to herself, as if able to read his mind. He reddens on the tip of his ears at the statement; yes, she knew him too well. She pushes out her chair once again, walking towards him rather than her blinking teleportation. She rises on her toes, trying to get eye-level with his tall physique, and he maddeningly reddens more (oh, the power she had over him!). Pleasantly, her eyes hold less of their previous fire and more of the endless onyx that is her infinite mind. There, he is lost for a moment. Gazing at her, he is always lost in the endlessness of the enigma that is Merlin; and yet, he is found within her as well, rooted to a purpose.

Quickly she pecks his cheek, the corner of her lips brushed with his. A moment that is over as rapidly as it came, and as the blood flushes across the bridge of his nose he tries to mentally solidify the faintest of kisses, hold it close in his mind and deep in his memory. Every touch between them is like a spark of light that he tries to hold onto, a drop of sunlight the spreads from his heart and through his veins. Warmth.

"Foolish man," she repeats in a mutter, though he sees the pink in her cheeks, rose petals against her pale facade.

Yes, they may have their differences and misunderstandings, but he has tried to figure out the mystery of Merlin for many years before. And she too has tried to discover him. He hoped they'd spend years and lifetimes discovering each other. His heart warms at the thought.

It feels like the sun.

* * *

So I guess I'm continuing this! I'm not sure for how long or how often, but Escalin is getting a lot of cool canon moments, so here I am to rant about them! If you have any prompts suggestions or thoughts, please let me know :)! Thanks for reading!


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